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CONJURE, WITH CURE—

Mis Tijeras

Poem by Ruth Moon Kempher

my scissors

sat on the table

rusted in the crotch &

wouldn’t cut butter

without a jag

but

gypsy lady

whispered them silver

sharp enough to cut stars

& houses & trees of glass—

the catch, of course

they stuck to the hand

of anyone who used them.  Long

after the cutting, they burned

finger loops into skin.

Only silver

of course

would lift the curse.

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“Conjure, With Cure,” a poem by Ruth Moon Kempher will appear in the upcoming Silver Birch Press Silver Anthology, available November 15, 2012.